


Satisfied

by TookiClothespin



Series: Curious [2]
Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: AYITL, F/M, Fluff, Literati (Gilmore Girls), Post-AYITL, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 08:52:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9812045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TookiClothespin/pseuds/TookiClothespin
Summary: “So, what brings you here?” he asks. She holds his gaze steady and does not blush. “I came to collect my prize.”Sequel to Curious. Rory, Jess, and a fair amount of smut. Set during A Year in the Life.





	

The days grow hotter and longer, and she is grateful for the latter, because there’s suddenly so much to do. She has a notebook full of lists--meetings to schedule, proposals to write--but she doesn’t know where to start.

Eventually, she calls Paris, who requests a formal meeting at her office in New York. The day before their meeting, Paris FedExes a request list to Stars Hollow, which Rory rushes to complete. Some of the items are simple--resume, transcripts, writing samples--but others cause her to balk.

“ _Ten_ sample elevator pitches?” she asks as soon as Paris picks up the phone. “How many ways can I say ‘let me write for you?’” 

“At least ten,” Paris barks. “And ‘let me write for you’ better not be on that list.”

Rory rolls her eyes and flips through the _Career Questionnaire_ Paris has asked her to complete.

“And this here? Question 23A in the Geller Career Assessment pamphlet-- _‘Estimate how many windows are in New York City and provide your reasoning?’--_ that’s a joke, right?”

“I don’t joke,” Paris says. “That’s an interview question they use at Google. The response shows how your mind works--how organized your thoughts are, how rational you can be.”

“But I’m not applying to Google.”

“Google sets interview standards all across the job market--even in the non-tech fields,” Paris says, impatience clear in her voice. “I need to know that you’re prepared to answer this question, and I need to know how your answer will be perceived by your potential employers.”

By the time Paris abruptly ends their call, Rory’s head is spinning.

The meeting itself is even more intense, but after twenty straight minutes of Paris yelling ‘ _Sell yourself, Gilmore!’_ in her face, Rory is starting to feel like she has a pretty good handle on things. She has a list of Paris’ publishing contacts; she has enough interview practice to last a lifetime; and now (she thinks) she can sell herself. Still, Paris presses on.

“I think we need to practice the handshake one more time,” Paris says, nodding so that the sunlight bounces off her cropped blonde hair. The digital clock behind her desk says that it’s 12:51 p.m.; they’ve been at this for almost three hours.

“Paris, you made me shake your hand ten times when I walked in.”

“Right, and you’re still not where I need you to be. I am personally introducing you to the CEO of HarperCollins, Rory. That is a very important contact. And I’m not giving you that introduction until I’m sure you can walk into Brian’s office and properly shake his hand. I will not have that fish-flop of your delicate wrist be in any way associated with the Geller name.”

“ _Paris_ ,” Rory pleads, exasperation thick in her voice.

“This is for your own good, Gilmore. Just shake my hand,” Paris stands and extends her arm. Rory stares up at her blankly.

“Shake my hand, Gilmore,” she repeats. Rory shakes her head instead.

“Ah,” Paris says, sitting back down. “Wait a minute. I know what’s going on here.” 

“ _What_ is going on here, Paris?” Rory mumbles, settling in for Paris’ next bout of insanity.

“I know why you won’t touch me,” Paris nods. “I’ve seen this before, although I didn’t expect it from you.”

Rory raises her eyebrows instead of taking the bait.

“You’re having a dry spell,” Paris says. “When individuals are deprived of intimate touch, even simple actions like a handshake become sexually charged. But the logical reasoning portion of the brain knows that this is socially inappropriate, and so it instructs you to avoid non-intimate contact altogether.”

“Oh, my god,” Rory says, burying her face in her hands. “I need another espresso.”

“Hmm,” Paris hums, turning her attention toward her computer. She hits a few keys and her eyes dart back and forth, absorbing everything on the screen. The room is silent for a few moments, and then--

“When was the last time you had an orgasm?” she asks, and Rory whips her head back up in shock.

“Paris!” she cries, eyes wide and color rising in her cheeks.

“You are thirty-two years old, Rory,” Paris responds. “You can say the word ‘orgasm.’ In fact, you can even _have_ an orgasm. Or five.”

Rory shakes her head again, staring determinedly at the folded hands in her lap.

“You _can_ achieve orgasm, right?” Paris asks in an overly-concerned tone. “I assumed as much from when we lived together in college--those walls were very thin, you know--but if you’re having any trouble in that area, there are some excellent doctors I can recommend. Female sexual pleasure is vitally important and should always be treated as a valid medical concern.”

She takes a breath, then stares into Rory’s eyes.

“ _Is_ there a medical concern?”

The stare continues and Rory scratches her head and looks around the room. She can hear Paris tapping her heel against the carpeted floor.

“There’s no medical concern,” she finally mumbles, because responding seems like the only way to make this conversation end.

“Good. Good, I’m glad to hear that. That makes things easier for us,” Paris says, typing on her computer again. She prints a sheaf of papers and hands them to Rory.

“Here are some of my recommendations for relief in... _that_ area,” she says. “Websites I like, vibrators that are especially quiet, apps where you can actually find a man who a) understands one night is just _one_ night and b) isn’t a complete _waste_ in terms of brains or contributions to society. Peruse them at your leisure, but do it soon.”

Rory blinks and numbly takes the papers from Paris’ hand.

“You need to take care of this, Gilmore. If you go into these meetings with your ovaries all in a tizzy, it _will_ show. It will show in your handshake, it will show in your body language, and it will show in that slightly dazed look on your face. You need a clear mind, Gilmore. I say this as not only a medical doctor and budding career consultant, but also as your friend: you need to _get some._ ”

She leaves the meeting knowing one thing: she is not going to ‘get some.’ She’s promised herself that now is the time to focus on getting back on her feet, getting her career in order, and sex will just distract her from the matter at hand.

Plus, she’s still living with her mother and Luke.

So Rory carefully files Paris’ sex portfolio at the very bottom of her desk, and focuses on the other Redweld Paris provided--the one full of publishing contacts, resume writing tips, and Paris’ personal (redacted) job search notes. Soon she has a part-time job, health insurance, and an intense writing schedule. She spends at least an hour a day doing something toward furthering her career--reaching out to contacts, pitching freelance articles to bolster her bylines--and she’s so focused that she barely has time to think about sex.

But the night before her first big meeting, Paris’ words come back to haunt her. _It will show in your handshake_ , she hears as she stares up the ceiling, trying to fall asleep. She has to be on the train to New York in just a few hours, but her mind is restless. _You need to take care of this._

And once she’s sure all thoughts of Paris have left her mind, she does.

She aims for efficiency--removes her pants, goes straight into her routine. Quick circles, even breath; she focuses solely on the end goal. But as her eyes drift closed, she finds herself back on the couch in the _Gazette_ office, with Jess pressing against her, kissing her neck.

She remembers the way it felt to have his hands all over her, and she slips her own hand under her shirt, ghosting over her nipples until they are stiff. She takes one between her fingers and tweaks it, and she thinks of Jess’ tongue in her ear, imagines how it would feel against her chest.

Her other hand picks up speed as it circles her swollen clit, and she imagines it’s Jess’ hand, Jess’ long, lithe fingers rubbing against her, pressing inside of her. She thinks about what it was like to have him licking her, hard for her, and when she comes she can only think of one thing: Jess inside of her, coming for her, too.

It’s no wonder that Rory blushes bright red the next time she sees Jess--at her mother’s house a few days before Lorelai and Luke’s wedding. She can call it ‘her mother’s house’ again because she’s finally moved out, is finally paying her own way in a crappy apartment a little closer to New York.

“Hey,” he says, cocking an eyebrow and smirking at her in his usual way. His eyes look almost golden in the crimson autumn light. “So I guess we’re best maids or something.”

“The term is ‘honor attendants,’” she says, because Lorelai has of course chosen her as her maid of honor, and Luke has chosen Jess as his best man. “And apparently that means we have a flash mob to plan.”

“Oh, _jeez_ ,” he sighs, rolling his eyes and flopping down onto the couch. He shifts his hips to remove a book from his back pocket, produces a pencil from somewhere in his coat. She watches him read for a moment; studies the way his eyes move, the way he rolls the pencil between his fingertips--it’s all so familiar, and yet so intriguing.

The wedding itself is gorgeous, and the party is the most exuberant one Stars Hollow has ever seen. Everyone in town is there to celebrate a marriage that was decades in the making, and even Mrs. Kim can’t help but smile.

Rory’s speech is nice, but it’s Jess’ toast that has everyone drying their eyes. They laugh as he talks about the lake, the ladle they once brought there, the time Luke pushed him in. And they tear up as he speaks honestly about how Luke helped him _grow_ up, how he taught him to be a decent man and understand the importance of family. He ends with a joke, but Luke wipes his eyes with his forearm and that gruff display of emotion has everyone sniffling again. Miss Patty and Babette cling to each other and sob.

“Ohhhh, my boys!” Liz croons as Luke and Jess embrace. Rory smiles as she watches Jess pat Luke on the back, and her heart flutters when he catches her eye and gives her a bashful smile. Then the music starts up again and the children rush up to dance.

Soon Luke is on the dance floor, too, but it’s not her mother on his shoulder. Instead, Lorelai looks on from the gazebo, holding a champagne flute and looking radiant in her white dress.

“We’re not even married for an hour and _already_ there’s another woman,” Lorelai complains as Rory approaches, jerking her thumb toward the dance floor.

“Did Grandma hold him at gunpoint to get him out there?”

“No, _actually_ ,” Lorelai pauses, her eyes twinkling. “That was Luke’s idea. He went up to her and said, ‘Mrs. Gilmore, would you like to dance?’ and she practically floated away.”

“Aww, that’s sweet,” Rory says.

“Yeah, it should rack up a few points in his favor,” Lorelai shrugs. She tries to sound flip, but there’s the hint of a laugh in her voice, and the lines near her eyes crinkle with joy.

“You look happy, Mom,” she says.

“Kid,” Lorelai sighs. “Not even the death of Diane von Furstenberg herself could bring me down right now.”

Rory kisses her mother on the cheek and makes her way to the bar. She gets some champagne of her own and sits at an empty table as she sips it, savoring the chance to take the night in.

Rory watches as her stepfather and her grandmother waltz across the dance floor. Next to them, Babette is dancing with Maury, and Kirk is taking some kind of survey while Taylor looks on. She sees Jess dancing with Doula, and Lane dancing with her two sons; she hears Jackson singing along to the music, and Sookie warning Bootsy not to pick up any spoons. Everywhere she turns, there’s someone she loves, here to celebrate the woman she loves more than anyone in the world. She’s never been more content to sit and watch a party unfold.

It’s not long before the party gets rowdy; Lulu is breakdancing and Miss Patty is in particularly rare form. When Rory spots Patty dragging Jess by the arm, she springs to her feet and finally joins the rest of the party on the dance floor.

“Thanks, Patty,” she says, grabbing Jess by the other arm. “I was just telling him it was time for the Maid of Honor/Best Man dance.”

Jess gives Rory a grateful smile, and she feels her cheeks redden as she holds his gaze.

“Oh, honey, the Maid of Honor/Best Man dance is a thing of the past,” Patty says, releasing Jess to her with a little push. “Now it’s all about the Maid of Honor/Best Man _hook up._ ”

Miss Patty raises her eyebrows at them expectantly and Rory stares at the floor.

“You know, I just read something about that in _Cosmo_ ,” Jess quips, sarcasm clear in his voice.

“I’m sure you did--those _Cosmo_ women know a lot about this kind of thing,” Patty says, her eyes already tracking Michel. “Well. _Good luuuck!_ ”

“Does she know he’s gay?” Jess asks as they watch Patty careening toward Michel.

“Oh, definitely,” Rory says. “She’s after his husband, too. She says it’s a two-for-one deal.”

“She’s out of control.”

They stand, facing each other but not quite looking at each other. Rory nervously smooths her blue silk dress; tries not to concentrate on how good Jess looks in his navy tux. He’s lost his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing those forearms that have always transfixed her. She loves to watch his muscles move under his skin; loves to think about her small hands tracing those tendons and veins.

She’s blushing again, and she clears her throat, forcing herself to look him in the eyes. At thirty-three she’s finally experiencing what a middle school dance feels like. Now she knows why she avoided it for so long.

“So,” Jess exhales, cocking his head to one side. “Should we dance?”

“Um,” Rory says, giving him a shy smile. “Sure.”

Slowly, carefully, Jess extends his arm and loops it around her waist, resting right at the tie of her dress and not a breath lower. Rory steps closer to him and places a hand on his shoulder; Jess takes her other hand and threads it with his own.

They haven’t been this close in a while--not in this way, at least. At the _Gazette_ their motions were frenzied; one second she was crying and the next they were horizontal on the couch. But now, on the dance floor, they are close and she has time to _think_ about just how close they are. She has time to think about the fact that she can smell Jess--smell his spicy cologne, the musk of his sweat, and that _Jess_ -ness that is always there, that hasn’t changed since they were teens.

She has time to think about how warm Jess is; how strong the arm around her waist is; how smooth the hand is that holds her own.

She has time to think about Jess’ gleaming eyes and crooked smile, his high cheekbones and his closely trimmed beard.

And she has time to think about her own body: the breast that is brushing against his shoulder, just scraps of fabric away from his skin. The dull tingle that has started between her legs; the wetness she can already feel gathering there.

She thinks about all these things as she and Jess dance, and she’s grateful when he begins to talk, is grateful for the distraction. He asks her how things are going and she gives him the full update--that she has an agent, a finished book draft, an essay in the _Times_ \--and he smiles in awe of her, says, “It sounds like you’re halfway there.”

And then the three or so glasses of champagne she’s had take over, because she finds herself asking, “Does your offer still stand?”

She’s thought about it a few times; the fact that she admitted to Jess that she wanted to sleep with him; the fact that he didn’t recoil but instead offered to do just that. It was an offhand comment, one he probably made in the heat of the moment, but she’d be lying if she said she didn’t keep coming back to it--wasn’t often titillated by the idea that Jess was somewhere out there, willing to have sex with her at a moment’s notice.

Jess stares straight into her eyes and says “Absolutely” with such intensity that it at first unnerves her--and then it emboldens her.

“What about a midway incentive prize?” she breathes, pressing closer to him as he does the same. The hand around her waist dips lower for a moment, strokes her ass and sends chills up her spine. He lowers his mouth to her ear and his lips brush against her swirls of skin as he speaks.

“No can do,” he breathes, and for a moment she feels disappointed, but then his tongue is in her ear and she can’t feel anything but aroused.

“Sorry,” he says as he pulls away, charming smile back on his face. “No participation trophies here.”

The party is still going strong at 2 a.m. when Lorelai flattens herself against a tree and waves Rory over with a hushed, “ _Psst._ ”

Rory ambles over, heels sticking in the grass as she goes.

“Quick, over here,” Lorelai says. Luke stands next to her with an exasperated look on his face.

“Look, we’re Irish Exiting,” Lorelai tells her. “This party’s great and all, but I’m not missing out on Wedding Night Sex just to watch Taylor do the _Cha-Cha Slide_ for the eleventh time in a row.”

“Taylor’s doing the _Cha-Cha Slide_?!” Rory asks, whipping her head back toward the town square.

Lorelai steps forward, snapping her fingers in Rory’s face.

“Hey, listen to me. Focus. If anyone’s looking for us, tell them that we’ll be in Room 7 at the Dragonfly Inn, and if they’re anywhere within a one mile radius they’re going to need some of _these_ _babies_ because I plan to make Luke scream like a--”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Luke says, dragging Lorelai toward the Inn. “Goodnight, Rory.”

They walk away, and Rory can hear them fighting over the ear plugs Lorelai is still waving above her head.

“Would you give me those?” Luke grumbles, shoving the tiny bag into his pocket.

“What, they’re for _your snoring_ anyway,” Lorelai responds.

“Funny, I thought I was supposed to be screaming, not snoring.”

Rory gives them a few moments’ head start and begins an Irish Exit of her own, walking the route to her mother’s house barefoot, carrying her silver heels in one hand. She is exhausted and tipsy and immediately collapses on her bed.

She’s just drifting into sleep when she hears a tap on her window. Startled, she sits up and turns toward the window. She sees Jess standing there, his features just visible in the bright moonlight.

She pulls the window open.

“Hi,” she says, brow furrowing with uncertainty.

“Hey. Can I come in?”

“Uh, sure,” she says, stepping aside so he can climb through. Her brain is still half-asleep and she can’t quite process what’s going on.

“Hi,” she says again, when he’s fully through the window, standing in front of her in the middle of the room. There’s only one light on--a small reading lamp she must have forgotten to turn off this morning--but she can see that his shirt is now untucked and unbuttoned, and the disheveled look makes him appear even sexier than before. 

“I reconsidered what you said about that midway incentive prize,” he says.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice gravelly and low. Suddenly his lips are on hers as he walks her backward toward the bed.

They collapse onto the pink bedspread and Jess continues kissing her, his tongue parting her lips and tangling with hers in between their open mouths. He moves quickly to her neck, licking her pulse point and then sucking there, eliciting a soft moan. He stays focused on Rory’s neck until she is writhing beneath him, arching her back and rocking her hips, begging with her body for more.

Jess carefully pulls her into a seated position and reaches back to unzip her dress. It falls to her waist, revealing her bare breasts, and he immediately takes one into his mouth. He sucks on her left nipple while his hand caresses the other, and when he gently bites down she cries out.

Jess pulls back so Rory can shift her hips, free herself from the blue silk dress, and Rory uses the pause to reach out. She places one hand on his trousers, finding his cock hard beneath the fabric, but as she grasps and it begins to stroke, Jess grabs her wrist and says, “No.”

He pushes Rory back onto the bed, holding her wrists above her head as he kisses his way down from her neck to her navel. Her body jerks with pleasure as he explores her sensitive spots--her hipbones, her bellybutton, the underside of her breasts--and by the time he dips a finger under the waistband of her panties, she is nearly begging for him to pull them off.

He drags the silk panties down her legs slowly, stroking her with his other hand with even less speed. She lets out a frustrated moan and bucks her hips, and his teasing touch gets even lighter.

For the first time in her life, she’s fully naked in front of Jess. She’s imagined this before, but her arousal is beyond anything she could have ever dreamed. She knows, vaguely, that he is still dressed, but then his lips are on her thighs and she can’t concentrate on Jess or his clothes or anything else.

Jess licks her inner thigh slowly; stops right at the juncture where her leg meets her sex and switches to the other thigh instead. She can feel the wetness seeping out of her, dripping onto the bed underneath her, and finally Jess’ tongue is _there_ , lapping it up.

He licks her outer lips, from her opening all the way to her mons, and she whimpers as his tongue hovers near her clit but deliberately doesn’t touch it. Her hands fall into his hair, at once cradling his head and trying to bring it closer to her, begging, still, for _more_.

Carefully, Jess uses his fingers to spread her lips, stroking them as he does. He pulls back for a moment to look at her and growls out loud at the sight.

Then his mouth is on her again, licking and sucking as she moans and convulses, thrusting her hips into his face.

“Oh, God! Oh, God!” she chants, as his tongue rolls over clit, massaging it over and over again. One hand is tightly wound in his hair, the other is above her head, pulling at the sheets.

“Jess, please,” she chokes, and he increases the pressure just slightly, picks up the speed, and again she presses her hips into him as she moans.

And then she is coming, yelling his name, her body convulsing as the orgasm pulses through her. He continues licking her until she stills, until only her hips are jerking as his tongue passes over her too-sensitive clit, and then he rises from the bed.

She is out of breath and seeing stars, but her brain suddenly registers something and she scrambles to touch him again. He is still hard--watching her come like that no doubt turned him on--but he shakes his head and pulls her hand away from him once again. 

“I have to go,” he whispers, and she is confused but also drowsy, so she doesn’t protest. He takes her hand and brings it to his mouth, kisses her knuckles, and by the time he is out the door she is already asleep.

The next morning she wakes and is unsure if it was real, until she finds a book next to her bed--one that’s covered in handwriting she would recognize anywhere.

“You left your Han Kang here,” she texts him, and she hopes a text this early doesn’t seem too desperate.

“I know,” he texts back right away. “You mentioned you hadn’t read it yet.”

So he’s given her an orgasm and a book, she thinks, smiling to herself. She doesn’t know where it goes from here--she’s headed back home today, and for all she knows he’s already in Philly, but she can’t wipe the grin from her face.

She wonders when she should text him again--if she should text him again--but by nightfall there’s another message on her phone.

“So what do you think so far?” he asks. And just like that, they’re texting regularly--sharing thoughts about _The Vegetarian_ , swapping pictures of Luke in his Jimmy Buffet shirt on his honeymoon.

The phone calls start in the new year, after Jess says he has a new project to tell her about, but it’s too complicated to explain by text.

“So I’m paying Doula and her friends to prank Luke,” he says when she calls.

“What?” She was expecting to hear about a new book or Truncheon endeavor, and finds herself laughing in surprise.

“Yeah, once a week I send her twenty bucks and a list of ideas. She recruits one of her friends to execute, another friend to film it, and Doula takes a cut. I don’t know how I never thought of this before.”

“Jess!” she scolds. “You’re the kingpin of an illicit prank ring?!”

“Just call me Vito,” he quips. “Have you heard about this new hipster thing--deconstructed coffee? They serve it in three beakers--espresso, water, and milk. Last week I had one of Doula’s friends try to order it; Luke turned purple and kicked her out when he couldn’t understand. So this week I mailed her three beakers and an instant espresso packet and told her to go in and demonstrate; I gave her a ten dollar bonus for the repeat performance. I’m going to send you the video--you have to see Luke’s reaction for yourself.”

“I’m turning on my laptop as we speak.”

By the springtime Jess is one of her closest friends; the only people she’s in contact with more are her mother and her agent. Almost every day there’s a text or email from him; almost once a week she falls asleep with him on the phone.

Eventually Paris’ contact comes through and she lands a meeting-- _the meeting_ \--at HarperCollins. Her agent already has an editor on board; the editor has recommended the book for publishing, and now it’s time to find out if her superiors at HarperCollins agree. 

She wakes up to a text from Jess--“Knock ‘em dead today,” he writes--and she smiles because he’s the only one she’s told about this meeting, the only one she can bear to tell if the meeting ends in a big fat _no._

So her mother is more than shocked when she calls her later that morning to tell her it’s a big fat _yes_ \--she’s signed a book deal, has earned a sizeable advance. Lorelai asks a million questions and Rory excitedly answers them all, telling her about everything from the characters in the book to the exact type of pen she used to sign the contract.

“Did you keep it?” Lorelai asks. “You should go back and ask to keep it. They’re going to need it for the Rory Gilmore Museum one day.” 

But she’s been walking uptown for almost an hour, has worked her way through lower Manhattan and Chelsea and has somehow ended up in Herald Square. That pen and HarperCollins are worlds away.

She hangs up and starts walking west--her brain finally understands where her feet are taking her--and moments later she is in Penn Station, buying the first train ticket to Philadelphia.

The ride is quick and she smiles the entire time, thinking about where she was a year ago compared to where she is today. She thought she was worthless, she thought she’d buried herself too far into the hole of self-sabotage to ever climb out again. But here she is, on a mountain miles and miles above that hole, achieving something she once dreamed of as a child. She's finally returning to herself.

There is one moment of doubt--when she knocks on Jess’ door and thinks maybe he won’t want her to be there, maybe he’ll have a date over and will shut the door in her face--but when he answers he smiles like he'd been expecting her.

“Hi,” he says, stepping back so she can enter the apartment. His living room is very Jess--dark furniture, leather couch, walls lined with albums and books.

“They’re publishing it,” she blurts. “I signed the contract and everything.”

His face breaks into a smile that’s almost as wide as her own.

“They would’ve been _morons_ not to,” he says. “It’s amazing.”

He gestures toward the manuscript on his coffee table; he has, of course, read multiple drafts.

There’s a beat, and then he steps toward her, a teasing gleam in his eyes.

“So, what brings you here?” he asks.

She holds his gaze steady and does not blush.

“I came to collect my prize.”

He smirks, still teasing.

“Did you even get the cap on the pen before you came rushing over here? Did you charter a plane or something?”

“Always so witty,” she says, reaching back and unzipping her dress. It falls to the floor and she steps out of it, walking them both back toward the couch.

“You know,” he says, as she pushes him down and straddles his lap. “I’ve heard helicopter is actually faster, because of the--”

She holds a finger to his lips, but it’s really her words that silence him.

“Enough,” she says in a husky voice. “Shut up and fuck me.”

His lips are on hers at once; his arms are around her, holding her close to him. He unhooks her bra as their kisses grow more frenzied; she’s already moaning, already grinding her hips into his. In one motion he lifts them both up, carries her to his bed with her legs wrapped around his waist.

“Fuck,” he mutters, as he looks at her naked and splayed on his bed. “You are fucking gorgeous.”

His lips are on hers again and soon she’s tugging at his shirt, unbuttoning his jeans, and then he is naked before her, and she can’t help but stare. His chest is smooth and muscular, his abs taut and defined. There is a trail of dark hair that starts below his belly button, flanked by sharp hip bones that jut out on either side. She is mesmerized by his erection, by the length of it and the reddened skin at the head. She descends upon it at once--it’s finally her turn to taste him.

She’s surprised to hear Jess’ quiet gasps and groans as she licks his cock, takes the entirety of it into her mouth and sucks. She’d worried Jess would be a stoic lover; she’s delighted to find she can make his hips buck, make him lose control and moan.

Soon he is pulling her up toward him, kissing her neck as she lays against the pillows. One hand snakes down to touch her, finds her clit and rubs it softly. The other hand grasps her breast, tweaks her nipple as she moans.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers in her ear.

“Fuck,” she whimpers. She gets close fast and he seems to know this, seems to pick up on the way her hips are moving to meet his hand, the way her nails are digging into his arm. He stops at once, gives her a mischievous grin when her eyes fly open in shock.

“Jess,” she begs. “Please.”

He reaches toward her again but she places her hand on his wrist, stopping him.

“No,” she says. “I need you inside of me.”

There’s a few seconds of scrambling--a condom that’s ripped open, a bottle of lube that falls off the nightstand--and then, finally, it’s time.

Jess lays on top of Rory, kissing her intensely as they line up their hips. He pushes into her slowly and they both cry out at the sensation. He draws back and pushes in again, and they quickly find their rhythm, sharing wet kisses in between gasps and moans.

Jess changes the angle just slightly, so his pubic bone kisses her clit with every thrust, and she cries out, grabs a hold of his bicep, and demands that he does not stop.

Her moans grow louder and more incoherent, and he presses a little harder, a little deeper, until finally, she comes. Her orgasm is shattering, all-consuming, and as her walls tighten around him he follows her over the edge, groaning as his hips jerk wildly into hers. They catch their breath and he kisses her tenderly before his body leaves hers, and after they clean up they settle into a close embrace.

Rory rests her head on Jess’ chest, using her finger to draw shapes on the arm that’s wrapped around her.

“I’ve wanted that for a long time,” she whispers, vulnerability in her voice.

“Me, too,” he says, pressing a kiss to her forehead. She smiles as they lay there, listening to the cars go by outside. Then Jess rolls over, rummages in his nightstand, and drops a Moleskine and a pencil onto her chest.

“What’s this?” she asks, leaning over as the pencil rolls toward her hip.

“If we have to wait for another book deal to do  _that_ again, then I’m going to need you to start writing, like, yesterday,” he says.

She swats his shoulder and then sits up to face him, a smirk on her face.

“Lucky for you, I signed a two-book deal.”


End file.
